A Life in Hindsight
by MadMadysonn
Summary: This is the autobiography of an OC I have made for a X-Men forum named Isolde Leon. The premise of the story is that she is writing her own autobiography, so the first chapter and the eventual final chapters will be in third person. There will be lemons, some fluffy, some non-con, some dub-con, but lemons there shall be! Please RxR!
1. Foreword

**Hello there dear reader, this is MadMadysonn here, or Tabs if you prefer ;D**

**I'd like to start off with bidding you a fair welcome to this Fanfiction that I'm going to create, for you see, she's in my brain and refuses to leave! I dislike it, though she does provide different viewpoints on things which I appreciate at times.**

**She stems as an original character I made for an active forum in the "x-men" category under "Movies" called Origin of Mutants. The forum is an AU, and we are looking for active people, specifically feral mutants. Please look it up if you're interested!**

**This is just to start off on Isolde's history more in depth than the brief summary I have typed out on the forum's Wiki. I hope you appreciate. It's rather gory, and somewhat displeasing in later chapters, so I will put warnings at the top!**

**I hope you read and review once I start! **

**Truly yours,**

**~MadMadysonn**


	2. Prologue

Isolde Leon entered her quaint bedroom, staring at the wall as she contemplated what to do to pass the time. She was all alone right now, her daughter Amelia was eighteen and didn't wish to share a room or bed any longer. It was far into the night, venturing around three in the morning or so and the rest of her adopted feral family was most likely fast asleep. She couldn't sneak into Victor and James' room, not after they installed a lock when they woke up to her in between them. She had only wanted to cuddle with her friends, adopted brothers and occasional lovers, what was so wrong with that?

She sighed as she resigned herself to surfing the web. She grabbed out her laptop, sighing as she realized it was rather outdated. Sure, it ran fine enough, allowed her to peruse the internet as she wanted, but if she wanted to begin to play games on it, she'd have to buy another. She wondered how weird it would look for a woman of forty-five years to be buying a laptop for games. She figured it would be too weird to attempt.

Another sigh escaped between her lips as she realized her age. She was forty-five, yet her feral family, everyone but her, would continue to live for what could be eternity. Victor's face, James' face, Daken's face, all of them were seemingly unchanged. Isolde reached a hand up to her own face, feeling the wrinkles that had come with age. Her hair had be sporting a few greys as well, though Isolde took care to dye them away. It was a hard fact to accept, she would die and the others would live on.

Would she become a memory just to fade from their memory? She knew her daughter would always remember her, people didn't forget their parents easily, that Isolde could testify to. But the question in her mind was posed more so towards her adopted brothers. They were both just over 200 years old each. She had only been in their lives for not even the last twenty years. She hugged her knees to her chest, almost crying as she balanced the laptop on her knees.

She was sure they were going to forget her eventually. Well, in her mind, the next day after her death really. She had to do something to change it, she just had to. She opened up a new word document and wrote across the top:

**A Life in Hindsight:  
My Story**


	3. A Birth

**Author's note: This week is my finals week in college, so the amount of updating will probably slow significantly. Also, let it be noted, I don't have access to a computer on weekends, so this story will be updated on week days for those who are following. Thank you to all who have reviewed so far, you keep me inspired and motivated to continue!**

**~MadMadysonn**

**WARNING: This chapter will contain a graphic description of a dead body after giving natural childbirth and dying. If you do not want to read it, I suggest either skipping over that section, or this chapter all together. Thank you for reading.**

* * *

It was July 5th, 1987 when my mother Mirabelle Leon gave birth to me in the home I grew up in. My birth certificate says it was at 12:01 a.m. but for all I know, it could have been a few minutes earlier, on the fourth of July, America's Independence day. That's just one ironic thing about my birth, it was already foreshadowing the demise of my innocence. My father used to tell me that he never thought of my mother any more beautiful that the moment she smiled when I was in her arms, crying out after my birth. Now I could believe him, having seen the miracle, and experienced it myself, but I never did before. It was just another memory that was unable to aid me when I was a child.

For you see, on October 4th, 1995, when I was only eight, she died. My mother, Mirabelle, or Mira to my father, had elected to give natural birth in her own home once again when she became pregnant with my brother. He was early, he was supposed to be born a few weeks later than when he came. I was at school, and my father was out on business in Madrid, unable to be reached. I don't know when she died exactly, I just remember when I came home from school that day.

I was at a private school, so I was wearing a plaid skirt, with a button up white t-shirt and a school vest. Our colors were red and green, and they clashed horribly on my skirt. I remember complaining often to my mother about it, but she always just said to quiet down and accept it. If I did good in school, I would get presents on my birthday, and after getting the one thing I truly wanted, a handmade doll house, the year before, I pushed hard. The dollhouse was very dear to me, I wish I had been able to take it with me when I was sent to Genosha. I used to love running my fingertips along the mahogany roof, feeling the little details in the shingles. Each room had its own wallpaper carefully plastered on the walls. My favorite had been the light pink paisley in the living room with a fancy red love seat with painted-on gold for the trim.

I'm getting too distracted, I apologize, but you know me by now. It'll happen often. Anyways, I remember walking into the house as I have always done. I waited by the door for my mother to come down the stairs, belly and hair bouncing before giving me my daily hug and leading me into the kitchen for a snack. She usually prepared croque monsieur with a lovely homemade tomato bisque with the grape tomatoes she grew in the garden, it was the perfect snack. When I stood there for more than ten minutes, I became worried somewhat. I figured she was in the bathroom as I shed off my coat and set my backpack on the coffee table in the open living room before heading up the red oak stairs that dissected the house straight down the middle.

I was heading to my room, to grab my dollhouse, when I slipped in something red. I landed on my buttocks, then hit my head on the floor. I began to shout and cry, but soon, another cry blended with mine. It was the cry of a baby, coming from my mother's room. The door was cracked open, and I could tell the cry was emanating from behind the wood. I pushed it open and screamed at the sight before me.

My mother was on the bed, naked, splayed and covered in blood. The baby was a bit farther down the bed, but it looked to be still stuck inside of my mother and covered in blood as well. I still don't know to this day how my mother managed to clear the baby's throat and nose without birthing him fully, and I know I never will. I took one look between my mother and the new baby before promptly emptying my stomach on the floor. _Dad was supposed to come home today, today was supposed to be a good day. _I remember telling myself that as I removed the baby out of my mother.

I cleaned him up best I could, but I couldn't move him far, the cord was still attached. I didn't know what to do with him. I just sat on the bed for what seemed like years, holding the child to me, spacing out as he cried and cried. I cried too. The tears burned, and some days I can still feel their burn on my cheek. I knew it was a boy, I could tell he didn't have baby parts, so I named him after the guy I had a crush on. Claude. My dad walked in only an hour after I had gotten home to see me, covered in blood from my mother and Claude, and clutching the baby to my chest.

It was decided I was his mother from that day. A responsibility I did live up to thankfully, for my father was of no help. Nannies, au pairs, they all did fine, but they weren't me. That was the way that baby Claude seemed to see it. He cried when I went to school, all day. He only slept in my arms. It was strange, but I heard the nannies whispers. They whispered of how an eight year could come to accept this child, who had killed my mother with its birth, so easily as if he was my own. In my mind, he was.


	4. Downfall

**Author's Note: Oh my, studying is taking quite a toll out of my motivation, which I usually lack! Thank god there's probably going to be some smut soon. Everything is better with smut, wouldn't you say? ;D**

**Sorry for any lack of description. I'm trying to just get the basis of this story done, which is not the attitude I should have! -hits self a couple times- Provide for the fans Tabs, for the fans!**

**Thank you to all who have reviewed, the more you review, the better I'll feel and more motivation I'll have! So please review, I need it 0-0**

**~MadMadysonn**

* * *

I raised Claude, by my lonesome. Father was always out on business, or unavailable emotionally for me to have asked him for help. He hired nannies, thankfully, otherwise I doubt I would be as sane as I am now, which we all know is saying something. Claude was a very obedient child as far as children can go...with me that is. He always listened to me, never anyone else, especially Father. It earned Claude a red behind more than a handful of times.

I think rebellion suited Claude well, he had our father's fiery red hair, though Claude's was often long and worn down in waves. His eyes, I loved his eyes the most out of every feature on him. They were so peculiar, one was an ocean blue, like my own eyes, but one was a light green. It was always fascinating to me, and often I stared at him when he was young, spending long minutes just peering into them. As he grew up, the soft mismatched eyes came to grow hard and cold. I've never been sure if it was because of my care or not.

I grew up carrying the burden of raising Claude for the most part with a few nannies and maids. Father was clueless on who did Claude's parenting, or chose to be ignorant of it. He never complimented me about it, never complimented Claude for anything he did well. There was so much Claude did well. It seemed he did everything better than me. We stayed up doing his homework, we helped him with his school projects. By we, I mean Claude and I. Father was just the money behind the happiness.

Don't get me wrong, I was so happy with Claude and my father. So incredibly, blissfully happy. Any psychiatrist my father attempted to rub off on me often told me I should feel anything but happy. It didn't change how I felt, I couldn't be angry at what I had. It was better than nothing, and I always knew that. I liked belonging in my family, Claude needed me, and I needed him. We both needed father, in whatever way we could get him. It was often through money, thrown at us as if that was the cause of happiness.

I never really appreciated being bought like that by my father, but I wasn't going to refuse him. Would you? I needed the money for good reasons, I never spent it on selfish things for myself. By the time I was seventeen, I was looking like a homely woman. I had barely grown into my adult body, so I looked like an awkward teenager who gawked at the thought of someone liking me. So when one of the kindest, and handsomest, souls at my school began to court me, I was sent aflutter.

Francois, even now, as I type this, I get reminiscent butterflies left from a life long ago. Francois was the typical heartthrob, dreamy eyes, perfect build, perfect skin, perfect hair, teeth, nails. The works. Why he had chosen to go after me, a girl who was still a bit flat-chested and trying to rid herself of her acne-prone skin, was beyond my teenager mind. I know now it was because I was an easy target for the games he wanted to play...

His hair, it was always the first I noticed when he came my way. It was sandy blonde and perfectly straight. It was long too, and it seemed soft to the touch, like fur. His eyes, there were so ethereal in their soft green color. I often felt like I could just get lost in the meadow of his eyes. I'm not sure if you can tell, but eyes mean a lot to me. It's the window to the soul, or so they say. His skin was the perfect color, tan, but still pale. More proof that his perfect body must be from a sports club he played in, in the city.

It only took the following French words to get hooked on the perfection that was Francois, "Est-ce que vous allez sur une date avec moi?" It translates to English as, "Will you go on a date with me?"

My shy answer of a whispered "oui" was my downfall. Every thing changed so quickly afterwards it was shocking. I barely had time to process one decision and its results before being forced to move onto another. The rapid decision-making broke me, made me depend on him, and that was the largest mistake one could have ever made. I had relinquished my will to him, in trust that he would do right by me.

He never did.


End file.
